Saltatus Aeternum
by XavierForest
Summary: For years He had watched them dance, His creations, forced to play a part in a performance that wore them down, and, in the end, would lead to their undoing. From God's P.O.V and His speculations on the Holy War.


It was a dance.

A beautiful, tragic dance in which would be performed for all of eternity.

A dance of blood, death, and sorrow… One that robbed them of their loved ones, hopes, humanity... their everything.

It hurt them again and again, wearing down their aching feet and pure hearts in this never-ending recital of death, with soldiers as dancers, civilians as stagehands, and God as their audience.

Forever would they dance, twirling and twisting up and down the stage in a myriad of colour, expressions mirroring their innermost desires.

They would dance and weep and laugh and be broken repeatedly, and finally, just when they thought it was all over, the curtains of Act Two spread wide, and the dance began anew.

The first performers were from far away, another world, if you will. They were beings of great power, strong willed and more than He could have ever hoped. He liked that.

They had continued to dance long after their world had crumbled down around them, returning to the nothingness or whence it came.

But even they could not dance for as long as He had hoped.

Although, much to His delight, as what little life that remained in their weakened bodies faded, they'd passed on the baton, not quite ready to have this dance end the way it had.

And they were right. The dance wasn't over, not until He said it was.

Earth was an interesting planet, to say the least. Its inhabitants weren't His best creations. Far from it.

Humans were greedy, and far weaker than He'd originally intended them to be. Truthfully, they were failures.

But now that they'd been forced to centre stage, He supposed that they shouldn't have been written off just yet.

Right now, what interested Him the most, what had sparked the intrigue and curiosity deep within Him, was the current lead.

The lead was a figure of gleaming white, tainted by the slightest of blacks, so deep into his role was he, with his compassion and sorrow so tightly interwoven, the character so pitifully ignorant and unknowing of even his own origins. The lead bared his heart for all to see, foolishly choosing to trust again and again, only to be betrayed… again… and again… and again… endlessly. Did he not learn? Or did he just not care?

This one was definitely the most tragic of His performers.

However, the title of _most brazen_ went to the one at the lead's side.

It was this one, the final remnant of humanity's immoral attempt to bring back dancers that had long since left the stage, that had been the reason that even He was kept in the dark as to how this dance would play out.

The creation of this _thing_ … its very existence was _wrong_ … it angered Him. These humans… they'd dared to tread into the realm of Gods… He'd thought it blasphemous, and it had angered Him greatly, because _how dare they?_

Cold satisfaction had been felt when that particular scene had played out before Him. They'd deserved the slaughter that came their way, especially when the one to have instigated this little side act was one of their own seemingly successful creations.

At first, this extra, the one now by the lead's side, had annoyed him. It _shouldn't_ have had the right to perform for Him again. Its time was over.

But now he knew; He's been wrong for the first time since the beginning of the universe.

This extra had earned the right to go on; He was glad for its existence.

To continue dancing, the new lead needed the assistance of this abomination. Or, to be precise, the lead needed _them all_.

She who weaved through the air with grace, legs carrying her to soaring heights.

He who danced with snakes of fire, subjugating the heavens.

The one that stopped time, bending the impossible to her will.

Another who yearned to know it all, his thirst for knowledge great.

One with fangs bared, relying on the lifeblood of his enemy to get him through each act.

There were more, many, _many_ more, even including that disgusting human, the one who sanctioned the use of his own kind as tools, and they all had their own place in this piece.

They weren't failures anymore, and amongst the wicked, surrounded by the rotten horrors that His dance bore, there were the splendid. The incredible. The breathtakingly beautiful.

That abomination had once thought His dancers to be similar to the Earth flower know as a lotus; a stunning flower that grew from the depths of the mud, rising up to make the world fragrant.

It just so happened that He agreed; His dancers _were_ lotuses, because even they would shrivel and return to the mud.

With them He'd been taken on an emotional ride, eyes riveted to what played out before him. Once, only _once_ had He made the mistake of looking away, drawn in by the final moments of what would soon be known to Him as the abomination and his ex-lover. Their deaths hadn't at all been that much of a surprise, really. What had, on the other hand, confused him, was the disappearance of a new performer.

And then, somehow, within the span of thirty years, a period of time of which He would have once thought meaningless, the danseur had returned as the _lead_ , of all things.

Never had He expected this, nor could He have ever predicted it. His dancers had altered the script to such an extent that even He knew not what was to come.

But He would wait.

Bubbling deep within him, flickering to life, was excitement.

Yes, He would most definitely wait.

After so long, things were _finally_ beginning to change.

Not that any of them really had much of a choice or say in the matter.

They never did.

Because this was a dance.

This was His dance.

One that He had created.

Each side had been given their roles, and each side would play their part, meeting when the dance required a partner, and splitting when one could dance no longer.

And in the end, they were all His puppets, His beloved creations.

Puppets whose strings were oh so slowly, and barely noticeably, corroding.

Puppets who, somehow, over the course of several millennia, had developed a storyline of their own.

A storyline that was different to the one that He had written.

(O)_(o)-(O)_(o)-(O)_(o)- (O)_(o)-(O)_(o)-(O)_(o)- (O)_(o)-(O)_(o)-(O)_(o)- (O)_(o)-(O)_(o)-(O)_(o)- (O)_(o)-(O)_(o)-(O)

 _I was sleepy, I was bored, I needed something to get the imagination flowing; this is the result._

 _I didn't reread this, so they're probably gonna be mistakes, but I'm too busy to fix that right now._

 _Favourite it if you want._

 _Reviews are even better._

 _Thanks for reading_


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